Privación
by ThatSassMaster
Summary: They crowned me Victor, and the Capitol loved me. They made me a murderer, and they made me someone to watch. They should have made me someone less bubbly. I'd give just about anything to be able to kick back and drink. HaymitchOc (Jumps through her life)
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**:** I don't own the Hunger Games franchise, unfortunately. **

_Sass Says_: I would love to thank my lovely, amazing beta: StayingAlive223. I would be totally...blah without her. 3

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My eyes flutter between open and closed as my mother sits down on the corner of my mat. She moved the rags that were helping to cover up our makeshift window, causing the sunlight and all its irony to spill through onto my face. It shouldn't be so bright on a day like this. I groan and turn onto my side, pulling my thin sheet over my head to shield myself from the ever present day.

"Rosalie," my mother says, placing her frail hand gently on my shoulder and pulling the blanket away from me once and for all. "Rosey, get up. I've let you sleep in too long."

"Is Thatcher awake?" I grumble, not wanting to be the first one up on such a dreary day, despite the radiance of the sunlight refusing to remove itself from my warm skin.

A deep laugh from the other side of our crowded room confirms my suspicions, "Yes."

"I am too, so don't try to use me as an excuse, either." That would be Rosetta, although I don't know why she's even awake. Today, everyone has off from work and school. If I was her, I would have stayed in bed all day.

Or, perhaps not. I don't know if I'd have been able to sleep when my two younger siblings were thrown into the Reaping. Either way, I don't want to get up. Not today. Any other day, I would have gotten up, albeit begrudgingly, to get ready for work. I've been working since the day I turned twelve, when I noticed I was being slowly weaned off of school so that our precious Capitol could eat.

Now, while the Capitol lavishly devours our tedious labor, I receive only a mere hour of education from noon to one. Even so, I usually skip it to take an extra shift of work.

Mother didn't like when I abandoned my books for the calluses and blisters on my scarred hands. But each passing hour presents to me a few more sad coins that are added to my family's small collection. I still work up in the trees with some of the younger children. If I don't get reaped this year, I'll be getting my own place in the fields or the factory with my mother and sister. Thatcher, my older brother, was moved to the farms when he was fourteen, where his tall, muscular build was much needed.

He's eighteen this year, his last year to participate in the Reaping. If he doesn't get drawn, my parents have managed what few others have – two children safe; two children who weren't forced to compete in a killing competition for the entertainment of the Capitol. Then, they only have to wait three more years for their youngest to be safe, too.

At only fifteen, I'm already counting down the days until my last Reaping; until I'll be safe for good.

But, I don't have a good feeling about today. That's why I want to stay here; on my mat bought from the tessaraes that Rosetta, Thatcher, and I have taken.

"I'm dressed, too, if you were wondering." Thatcher's laughing again. I open my eyes to peer at him through my dark lashes and see his cheeky grin. "And Rolex is waiting on us, so I'd hurry up if I were you."

Rolex is our long-time neighbor and Thatcher's best friend. Lola, Rolex's sister, is a year older than I am, but we've been friends for years. She works in the fields already, and is part of the reason I want to head there as well.

"Seriously, Rosalie. The Peacekeepers won't like us being late."

I find it amusing that he tells me this because Thatcher is the one who's always at odds with the Peacekeepers. They don't like him because he's sullen around them, and he's always smarting off at them. He's been trying to tone it down—particularly because he knows what his public whippings to do mother—but he and Rolex hate them with a passion they sometimes can't seem to subdue. It's because of the Peacekeepers that neither Rolex nor Lola has parents, and it's because of them that we no longer have Aunt Rosemarie anymore.

Aunt Rosemarie used to take care of us when we were younger. She was unable to work, so my parents left us with her while they went off—a babysitter, of sorts. She played games with Thatcher and me, but she was also the one who taught Rosetta how to read when the instructors called her incapable. She taught me how to sing and whistle so that, when I was put in the trees, I would be able to relay the message that work was done.

Now, my sister works in packaging, my mother there alongside her. Mother's the one in charge of making sure that all the boxes are labeled properly so that we—the outer Districts-don't get more supplies than the Capitol.

My father works out on the farms with Thatcher and Rolex. They do all the heavy lifting because the Capitol won't allow us to have machines after "The Incident" happened lo those years ago.

"The Incident": A group of workers who ran the machines rebelled against the Peacekeepers after a young girl was executed. Using the equipment to their advantage, the workers managed to off three Peacekeepers before they were caught and executed themselves.

No machines have been allowed since then, forcing back-breaking work upon the men in the District. I still hold my place in the trees, but everyone assumes that I'll end up working with the rest of my family in packing.

I'd rather be out on the field with Lola and like Aunt Rosemarie, though. They get to work near the fields where my father and Thatcher labor, and I've decided that pulling and planting vegetables isn't too hard of a job. I would rather be outside letting the sun soak my skin than inside the factory with its white walls and artificial light. Inside, the temptation to give the Capitol spoiled goods is strong, and the temptation to give the outer Districts more food almost overpowering.

It'd be better for both my family and me if I worked out in the fields.

I usher Thatcher out of the room and slide into a worn, patchy green dress. It used to belong to my mother, but she passed it on to Rosetta, who passed it on to me, when she was free from the Reaping. My mother has altered it so that it doesn't fall off my skinny shoulders.

Normally, I braid my hair out of the way for work, but, as today is special, I leave it loose. As I pull on my stockings, my mother brushed through my tangles until it falls in loose waves over my shoulders. I can feel her hands shaking as she works, causing the butterflies in my stomach to flutter yet more violently.

We all leave our shack of a house and walk silently with Rolex and Lola. I can feel Lola's hand shaking in mine the closer we get to the center of the town. I squeeze it to let her know that everything's going to be okay, but Rolex has already beaten me to it. He throws his arm over her and smiles when Thatcher does the same to me.

"You don't have that many tessarae yet, so don't worry, Rosey," Thatcher's just as tense as I am, even if he won't admit it to me or even himself. "What are the chances of either of us getting picked?" I almost snort. _What are the chances?_

"Don't jinx yourself," Father snaps, but none of us read too much into it. My father has the tendency to worry, but he always calms down as soon as our names aren't drawn, still safe in the glass bowl with thousands of others. He has been worrying about his children getting reaped from the moment Rosetta turned eleven nine long years ago. It had been especially bad when all three of us were of age. "Wait until after the Reaping's over to joke around."

He says things like that every year, but the truth is that _no one_ jokes or celebrates after the Reaping because, inevitably, one boy and one girl are always chosen. The entire District mourns for them, and we all try to help the families for as long as we can, which isn't really saying much. The entire town seemed to die on the inside during the Second Quell four years ago. M_y _mother had been particularly on edge. Then, with forty-eight tributes, Rosetta and I both could have been drawn in for the girls, and Thatcher might have been picked for the boys. To our surprise and luck, none of us were chosen for what seemed like the bloodiest Games in history.

No one got to watch much of those Games, though. The only broadcast happened to be in the square, where everyone was encouraged to watch, but few were so lucky. We all had jobs that needed to be done. They rigged it to where there were radios playing the voice-overs of the infamous announcers Claudius Templesmith and Caesar Flickerman. We got to hear Haymitch Abernathy crowned victor, but we didn't get to see how he won until much later. I remember the immense celebrations of the outer Districts. It's rare for us to win the Games.

They say he turned to drinking, though, like Chaff had. And a shame, too. He was handsome for a sixteen year-old—dark curly hair that hung low over his steely grey eyes, lean and muscular with a mischievous smirk on his mouth. It's hard to think of him as an alcoholic, at only twenty years old. But that's what the pressures of the Games do to you, I suppose.

"Good luck, darling. I love you." Mother hugged me first, whispering words of encouragement through my hair and into my ear, her breath warm on my neck. She turned to Lola next while father talked to Thatcher and Rolex. I wait until he's done before letting him pull me away to tell me the same. They both place a kiss on all of our anxious heads.

None of us are the best off, but we have each other. My parents hadn't been legally allowed to take in the two orphans, but they basically live with us anyway, sharing what little they have with what little we have. It's a mutual agreement that seems set in stone after so many years.

As we wait in line to have our fingers pricked, I can't resist the urge to turn towards my brother with an accusatory look crossing my face. "How many times?"

He told my mother that he only took three tessarae over this past year, but even I knew that he was a liar and that it had been much more than that. Lola turned towards Rolex with the same look crossing over her features.

"How many times is your name going to be put in that bowl?"

Thatcher shared a glance with his best friend before they both shrugged their shoulders at us. I didn't have it in me to be too angry with either of them, especially because I know that both of us had lied to our mother.

We're a poor District, and it is frightening to think about what would have happened if we didn't get what miniscule bit our family couldn't to provide for us. Rosetta had been somewhat of a miracle. Even my parents were shocked when she finally admitted to them how many times her name had been entered by her last year – 84.

"I'm at 80, even," my brother finally answers when the Peacekeeper forcibly takes his hand and pricks his finger, as if bringing him to this horrible reality. A drop of blood later, I know my brother's chances of being taken to the Capitol and forced to play killer are much higher than my liking.

"I'm somewhere around 70, give or take," Rolex adds nonchalantly, like his life isn't on the line. His finger takes several pricks to get through the buildup of calluses from years of overwork.

Lola gives a strangled noise in her throat as she moves up in line. I know that she's not ready to answer him, so I smile at the two of them as if this day allows even the slightest bit of happiness. I'm younger than both my siblings, so neither of them really let me take any until last year. I tried to make up for it, especially because I'll be taking in more next year when we only have Lola and I to enter our names into the games.

"27."

I ignore Thatcher's sharp intake of breath because I'm pulled towards the front of the line. Both the boys are forced away from the line and are shepherded to where the other 18 years-olds wait. Lola's hand curls around mine once again as we're filed in with the rest of the girls our age. We're all scrawny and malnourished; it's a wonder any of us can stand on our feet for long, let alone work. I crane my neck to see where our siblings end up, but they're both lost in the crowd of familiar faces.

Genie, our escort, struts onto the stage in this ridiculous blue get-up that sparkles as if it's filled with tiny diamonds, which it probably is. The fantastic color takes me by surprise against the dreary mood and the grey backdrop of the Justice Building. It's train flows behind her, waving in the dry wind of District 11. I instantly hate her for wearing something so ravishing when she's in a District that's starving.

I'm too busy loathing her and raging war against her in my mind that I don't bother to listen to the speech she gives about everything being a privilege, and how she is oh so ___honored_t o be here. Neither do I pay any sort of attention to the video that tells us why we're all here. I let Seesy, the girl who works in the trees beside me, grab my free hand. Her thin frame trembles so terribly you would think it was 20 degrees out here. Her aunt, Seeder, is standing up on stage with her fellow victor and mentor, Chaff, beside her. Seeder's already in her forties – she won her Games years ago. She hates having a big house and nothing to do, so she works in the factory with my mother when she isn't training tributes.

"Ladies first!" Genie beams at all of us and suddenly I wish I had paid attention to her laughable spiel—it would have made time go slower. In her ridiculously high heels, she saunters towards the large bowl that holds my name 27 times. The bowl that holds Lola's name 43 times.

I can feel the tension in the air around me, buzzing in the silence that fills my ears. A collective breath is taken by everyone who stands among the crowd in the crammed square, all praying and hoping that it's not their name on that card.

Luckily for them, it's not.

"Rosalie Trosse!" My body stiffens from the roots of my teeth to the ends of my toes because it's _my_ name on that card, and I really don't want to go up to that stage with Genie and her diamond dress that's still flowing flawlessly in the stupid sunlight.

The relieved looks that flash over the faces of my friends nearly destroys me, but in a second I can see the guilt they wear on their sleeves. Seesy lets go of my hand almost immediately as she backs up. Lola squeezes it before she does and there are tears already dripping down her face as the harsh reality of the situation hits her.

I feel the blood drain from my face, but I fold my hands carefully in front of me and make my way forward to the front, one agonizing step at a time. Genie smells like perfume – like too much perfume; I've never owned any, but I never want to after it assaults my nostrils and imbeds itself into my mind.

When she smiles at me, I manage some sort of grimace back at her before taking my place in front of Seeder. Genie continues to speak, as if my mother wasn't screaming and begging for someone to volunteer in my place, but we all know no one's going to.

It might be an honor to volunteer to enter the Games in the Career districts, but here in 11 no one is willing to take that chance.

Eventually, Rosetta manages to shut mom up, because the crowd around us becomes quiet once more. I try not to so much as glance at the rest of my family, because, so far, I'm managing to keep my cool. I know I'll crack if I so much as peek in their direction. My eyes, however, decide to land on my brother, who's maybe an inch away from falling apart completely. Rolex's hand steadies him on his shoulder, but does little for the broken look in his eyes as they bore into mine with such intensity I feel like fire could erupt from them at any second.

"Now, for the gentlemen."

I'm trying to convey to him that I'll be fine – that nothing bad is going to happen to me because I'll do anything to get back to them—that I almost don't here Genie falter with the name she's reading. When I glance at her, I know something awful just happened if she was giving me such an apologetic face. My heart drops to my stomach.

"Thatcher Trosse!"

Sympathy is a hard thing to come by now days, but I swear it's in the look Genie gives me as she glances between Thatcher and myself.

If my mother was sobbing before hand, there isn't a word to compare it to what she is doing now. I see a pair of Peacekeepers break away from the crowd of would-be tributes to make their way over to her. Father and Rosetta try desperately to get her to stop, but she's collapsed, every last fragile string holding her together broken beyond repair.

The boys around Thatcher start to make a sort of aisle to the stage, the implication urging him forward. His lips have turned into a frown, making me miss already the easy-go-lucky boy I woke up to with a laugh on his breath and a light in his eyes. He heads towards me with a heartbroken, but determined look set upon his features.

He breaks away from the crowd and marches towards me until he's just on the other side, barely an arm's length away. I try not to picture how marvelous he's going to do in the Games. He stands at 6 feet even, his shoulders broad and set firm as he stands stiff-backed in front of the crowd. This is the boy who used to walk me to school; the boy who used to walk me to work. This is the boy who slept next to me in that shack we called a home and defended me even when I was just a child.

I know the Career pack will want him, but I know they won't want me. That doesn't make me feel any better, but I can't help thinking about my short future.

Genie puts a hand on both of our shoulders and thanks our family. _Thanks_ _them_! Thanks them for their children who will die at the hands of the Capitol, for their children who are about to be forced to kill for fame and fortune. It disgusts me and I can see Thatcher's doing everything in his power to hold back a deriding comment.

The cameras shut off, and the Peacekeepers grab us both by our upper arms, dragging us into the Justice Building none too gently. The last thing we hear is our mother screaming our names.

And then a gun shot. The doors of the Justice Building keep my eyes from lingering, from finding that unfortunate soul.

Seeder and Chaff aren't too far behind us, but they're just as wary of the Peacekeepers as Thatcher and myself. We're both thrown into one room. Thatcher helps me to my feet when Chaff slams the door behind him. Neither Seeder or Chaff can seem to contain the worn look rooted firmly on their faces as they lead us to the couch in the corner of the room.

"I'm sure it was just a warning shot." Seeder tries to be comforting, laying one of her hands on my thigh and the other on Thatcher's forearm. "You're going to get to say goodbye to..."

"To the rest of your family." Chaff finishes, plopping down in a chair and pulling a flask from his inside pocket.

Out of public eye, I let my poorly masked façade break and tears spill down my cheeks as I try to ease the stabbing pain in my chest. Thatcher's arms wrap protectively around me, and I know he's struggling not to let the river break through the leaks in his walls.

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A/N: For those of you just tuning in, you'll find that this chapter is utterly amazing. (Not because of me, but view what Sass says, ha.) For those of you looking back, not much has changed, but you'll notice that it's more polished. New or old, let me know what you're thinking. 3 I very much value your opinions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer**:** I don't own the Hunger Games franchise...But, if I did, there would definitely be more love for Haymitch Abernathy.**

_Sass Says_: I would once again love to thank my amazing beta, StayingAlive223, but would also love to thank my first reviewer: JujuMel! This chapter is for you~

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No one really visited us like I thought they would. Neither my father nor Rosetta ever showed up, not that Thatcher and I expected anyone to after what happened, but still. Our last chance to say goodbye (mine probably forever) and we don't even get to see the people we care most about.

It was thoughtful of Seeder and Chaff to try to cheer us up, but nothing made me feel any better. Both Thatcher and I knew what happened to those that made the Peacekeepers angry, especially since they were being broadcast. The shot we heard wasn't a warning shot, and it didn't take much for both of us to acknowledge that our mother was dead. If only Seeder would acknowledge it as well, then we wouldn't have had to sit here as long as we are.

Maybe she expected us to be more shaken up about the whole thing. By this point, though, I managed to control my emotions and turn them into anger. I'm numb.

Thatcher held my hand as we sat in the office for what seemed like an eternity, but neither of us moved. I could feel the tears streaming down my face, but I wouldn't let the sobs escape me. Neither could Thatcher. His eyes were water free, but his hands were shaking worse than mine.

Eventually, the Peacekeepers come back to us after our designated hour empty of visitors had passed. I follow behind the men in the white suits with my brother right next to me. They march us like cattle towards the Capitol train, but neither of us have any time to admire the glory of something so incredible. Chaff and Seeder sit themselves down comfortably once we're inside, but I twitch awkwardly as Thatcher stands stiff once again by my side. Neither of us has seen so much food.

Even with the tesserae we took out, it doesn't compare to the table in front of us. The extensiveness of the ravishment could feed our family for months. It is obvious that Genie isn't bothered by it because she plops down right next to Seeder with a wide smile on her plasticized face.

"You'll ___love_ this. It's so good, trust me. You'll absolutely adore it!" She sunk her teeth into what looked like chicken, although I wouldn't really know because meat is rare even for people better off than we were.

Thatcher's never had chicken, either, as far as I know, but the look on his face when he tentatively bites into it makes me smile, and the tears finally stop dripping down my cheeks. I barely start to eat when Genie perks up at our cooperativeness and grabs a remote from near the television. It is bigger than the projector they use to bring us the games.

"Let's look at the competition, shall we?" She asks giddily, although it isn't really a question more than it is a statement.

The girl from District One can be summed up with one word: seductive. She had wide, malicious blue eyes, and silk-like, curly blonde hair pulled in a short, carefully-crafted style. She isn't incredibly tall, but she isn't short. She has to be around seventeen and the boy about eighteen—who was incredibly beautiful. His piercing gray eyes seemed to penetrate the television screen and stare directly at me. He has straight, chestnut colored hair that's kept short and very practical. He's about as tall as Thatcher, and has a muscular build. Garnet Pence and Topaz Seely.

The rest of the careers were as expected, like District One. All beautiful, muscular, and lethal. Names pass through the fog in my mind, but only few stay long enough for me to remember them. Darya Cresta from District Four had fiery red hair that cascaded down her side in a fish-tale type braid. She had an Amazonian build and in her arms she held a baby with the bluest eyes I've ever seen. It started to cry when she handed it off to the nearest girl to make her way up to the stage. Her eyes screamed revenge, and I made a mental note to watch out for her.

District Seven's Sylvan Green had to be no older than fifteen, but he looked like he was about ready to take anyone out with an axe. He had very black hair and reminded me a lot of a sixteen-year-old Haymitch Abernathy. He honestly didn't look exceptionally extraordinary, but he seemed be hiding something behind his hooded eyes. His Partner, Ilara Thorne, had to be fifteen as well. She had to pry what looked like her twin off of her before she made her way up to the stage.

It was harder to watch my own Reaping. It's still painful to see the look of confusion then hurt flash on my face as Seesy and Lola abandon my sides. But, I am immensely proud of the look of pride that sparks on my features the next moment as I make my way to the stage. There, I look down at the crowd coolly, easily avoiding the area where the cameras zoom to show my mother crying loudly into my father's neck. Rosetta's entire frame became pale, and her hands shaking uncontrollably.

"You took your news better than I did." Thatcher's mouth curves into a weathered smile as he raises his eyebrow at me. "See? There I am, shaking."

And, he was. Only, when I thought that he looked worried before, I had gotten it all wrong. My brother hadn't looked worried – he had looked livid. And, when his name was called, his face became that of stone. He looked like every bit as scary as I expected him to be. When both of us were on stage, we looked a lot smaller than the other tributes – hungrier, thinner. Of course, we were starved, but a little more so than District Three and District Ten, who were the closest in appearance. Inwardly, I smiled. Rosalie and Thatcher Trosse, fifteen and eighteen.

District Twelve had me shaken. The girl was relatively small. She had to be twelve, but looked even younger than that. She looked every bit as skinny as I did, and her grey eyes kept flitting back and forth over everyone, begging for them to volunteer for her. No one did. She had dark hair, grey eyes, and an olive complexion. Her name is Wedge Roe. The boy was as tall as Thatcher and Garnet. He, too, had dark hair, grey eyes, and an olive tone to his skin. He had a square jaw and long hair tied back into a ponytail. His bulking muscles flexed involuntarily—or voluntarily, I don't know—every time he moved, and his face was impassive and blank. His name is Adit Oden. They are escorted inside of the Peacekeeper building by Haymitch, although he stumbles. I guess the rumors of him turning to drink are true.

I'm struck, really, by how nice but intimidating Adit seems. So much that I stare at the screen for a while after Genie turns it off. After she finishes reassuring us that these Games will be the best ever, she claps her hands excitedly. Much too enthusiastic.

"Aren't you two just ___so_ excited?" she asks.

"No." Thatcher answers before I do, and he sets down his chicken while glowering at her. His entire being is twisted, like he's talking to a Peacekeeper.

"Thatcher," I lay my hand on his knee, frowning, but not completely disagreeing with him.

"I'd eat up." Seeder smiled and tapped her hands on the arm of her chair. "We'll arrive in the Capitol soon, and you have the rest of the day to relax. Tomorrow you meet the prep team; they'll get you through the chariot presentations. Then, it's training."

Chaff snorts, refilling his flask with the alcohol on the table. "Seeder, are you going to take care of them?"

I lean back, smelling the whiskey on his breath, with distaste. She doesn't pay him much attention, looking past him to us.

"You're going to hate it. You're going to really hate it, but you're going to need to get them to like you. The only District the Capitol likes less than us is Twelve, and they still adore Haymitch."

"Hey!" Chaff frowns, leaning forward. "I'm not too old yet!"

She snorts and spares him a glance. "Promise me you'll sleep tonight?"

My brother didn't look amused, so I nodded my head for the two of us.

"We'll talk strategy tomorrow." She finishes, nodding towards Chaff as the two of them stand up and make their way back to their rooms.

Genie looks at a loss between the two of us and heads off towards her own room without further instruction.

So, we leave the table as well and sit next to the windows, where we can see the world passing faster than I could have thought feasible. It is impossible to focus on anything in particular, but it's nice to get to look at the scenery rather than thinking about dying in the future. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, Thatcher is shaking me awake and lights spills through the crystal window, reminding me painfully of home.

"Why are you always asleep, Rosalie?" His tone isn't scolding, so I shrug my shoulders at him and stretch.

There are people peering at us through the tinted windows, screaming and waving their arms frantically. It startles me, so I draw closer to my older brother with an astounded look on my face. Thatcher's hand wraps around my wrist as he pulls me closer to Genie and Seeder, his face carefully blank. The two of them protect us from all the wandering hands wanting to touch us until we are inside what Genie has introduced as the Remake Center, where our prep teams await our arrival.

As soon as I step a foot inside, a strange woman grabs my wrist and tows me along behind her as if we haven't just met.

"This way, Rosalie!" She beams at me, leading me into a secluded hallway. I glance over my shoulder and Thatcher has disappeared, along with Genie and my mentors.

Juniper has two beady orange eyes the color of glowing embers. Her silky hair falls in waves to her waist. And, while that normally wouldn't be odd, it was the color of emeralds and twisted into a comet's trail. She's short and awfully busty, but incredibly pale.

"I'm Juniper Aldjoy!" She grins, her teeth bejeweled with more tiny emeralds. _What is it with Capitol people and wearing precious jewels like they're not a rare thing? _She gestures toward the woman with droopy purple eyes. Her curly hair is the color of cream and crafted into two very high pigtails on either side of her head. She was somewhat taller than Juniper, but she had an athletic build to her. "That's Zipporah Rollo!"

The bouncy man next to us has narrow gray eyes the color of coins, but his thick purple hair is styled so tall it has to be some sort of headdress. He's incredibly tan—an unnatural color, not like my dark skin—and keeps muttering under his breath while looking at me. When I finally catch him staring, he flashes a quick smile. "Libo Renfrewshire, at your service."

"We're your prep team," Juniper says. "And now that we've made your acquaintance…"

They lead me into a room and shut the door behind me. I'm pushed onto a silver, metal table with only a thin sheet of paper on it, and I stare at them blankly. They asked me to take of my clothes, and I do so warily, eyeing all three of them the entire time that I do. It's freezing in the room and their eyes rake over my body almost hungrily, like a lion would look at a stray antelope.

When I'm finished, I'm told to lie back on the table and I happily oblige. There's no getting out of this, Seeder told us. I almost start to fight them, though, when I feel something being spread onto my leg. It's hot and it's almost painful, but the real pain comes when they stick a cloth to it and pull it out.

I scream, but they trudge on, seeming unfazed by my outburst. They take hair from my legs and my underarms, from above my lips to my eyebrows – all over the place. My eyes well up and I can't stop the tears from coming. It's not emotional, just painful.

After the waxing—that's what Juniper called it—is done, they're scrubbing my body with a hard soap that's almost more painful than the pulling of my hair is. Then, they move onto doing something to my stomach, and I don't open my eyes to see what it is. Finally, after I'm hosed down and dried off again, I feel a robe being pushed into my hands, but I have no time to put it on.

I'm pulled onto my feet and look up to meet sparkling golden eyes. The woman before me is decked in a stylish red dress ending mid-thigh. Her hair is a pale yellow and pulled into a high ponytail, ending around the middle of her back. Her eyelashes are extremely long, and her lips are painted a bright red. "I'm Blye."

She's carrying a dress in her arms, and I eye it in her hands. None of the previous victors have been dressed lovely before, so I'm immediately wary of her. She seems to sense this and tells me to relax.

"We're going to doll you up like ___Persephone_ from old Rome." She holds out the dress for me, and I'm astounded.

The dress is so plain, it's beautiful to me. It's long, and it's green. It's the color of dark grass, and I love it immensely. On my wrists, Libo and Zipporah braid long grass into bracelets while Juniper braids strands of grass and little flowers into my hair. Blye is doing last minute arrangements on my dress, making sure it fits me right. When they're done with that, they go about doing my makeup, but keep it light as it's supposed to look "natural".

Blye grabs my hand excitedly and drags me down the hall, beaming at me. I'm wearing no shoes, and I tell her, but she waves me off. When my eyes landed on Thatcher, my eyebrows hit the sky. He looks almost like me, but a fiercer me. Not only that, but he's wearing less clothes than I am. His chest is bare, showing off his muscles. (And his ribs. I have to force myself not to count the few that are visible.) I have to think back to when my brother had ever gotten a six pack without me noticing.

We're handed baskets of fruit and vegetables – things that we could have easily picked and shucked back in District Eleven, and I'm more than a little angry that they would use this for props instead of eating it when my people are starving at home.

Thatcher helps me get in the chariot and I wrap my hands around the reins to keep a steady balance while he does the same. We're not the last chariot to get started, but we might as well have been. Ten chariots went forward before ours did. I nearly take a step backwards when the chariot jolts us back, but both of us manage to stay in one place.

We stand tall and gaze at the crowd around us. Thousands of Capitol-citizens must be there, and I shift uneasily. I'm careful to keep my face blank and fierce, like Thatcher's.

I'm filled with the urge to wave at some members when out chariot starts down the first leg of the Square. Thatcher follows my example, and eventually we have people throwing flowers at us with admiration. With every one he caught, my brother would pin them somewhere on himself or somewhere on me, weaving a thorn-less rose into my hair with ease. It had been something he used to do when we were children.

It makes me severely uncomfortable to hear people shouting my name and screaming for my attention, thinking I'm small and insignificant and these people shouldn't even _know _my name. But they do, and this is happening. I squeeze my brother's hand.

It's hard to focus on anything around me while our blonde, almost golden, horses pull us at an amazing speed. My knuckles turn white from my grip on the side of the chariot and finally, we come to a smooth, practiced stop before President Snow himself.

"Welcome, tributes! Happy Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor!"

* * *

A/N: If you loved this chapter, let me know. If you loathed it, that's okay. You're entitled to your opinion. But, I'll not know what you hate unless you review~


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer**:** I totally own the Hunger Games franchise...inside of my head. /3**

_Sass Says_: Without StayingAlive223, who knows how this chapter would have really turned out? So much thanks, doll~

* * *

As soon as the president's speech is over, the chariots are moving back and Thatcher and I are decked out in more flowers than we arrived with. I am willing to bet I looked more like Persephone now than I did heading out. The Goddess of Springtime, Blye told me; I certainly resemble her. On our way back, I wave and blow kisses at the crowd and try not to shiver as they scream my name, my brother's name.

I blink, and I'm not longer on the chariot. Thatcher has lifted me down, and Blye and Seeder surround me and pull me in the direction of the elevators without even letting me look at the rest of the tributes. Behind me, I hear Thatcher arguing with his own stylist and Chaff, but Blye and Seeder's voices are louder than his as they smile down at me.

"You were amazing out there, sweetheart." Blye's smiling at me like it wasn't her idea to put me into this dress to begin with. Rather than argue with her, I smile warily and lean against Seeder as she hits the elevator button for the eleventh floor.

"Where's Thatcher?" I ask her, blinking as the doors close before the tributes of District Five could jump on with us.

"He's on his way, honey. He had something to discuss with Chaff." Seeder pats my arm comfortingly. "We're going to let you get all cleaned up and have a quick snack before you're off to bed."

"Usually, the sponsors never get attached to anyone but the Careers before the results are announced, but they _loved_ you two." Blye's almost shaking with glee. "We were getting approached with offers of assistance the moment you two came out!"

"One of you will go home." Seeder whispers in my ear, tucking a stray piece of hair back. "I promise."

Outwardly, I frown. I know it's odd, but I hadn't really thought of trying to go home. Thatcher and I are from District 11. Even though it hasn't been too long all things considering, it's been 10 years since the last victor – Chaff. Seeder had won her games at least 10 years before that. Besides Haymitch Abernathy, no one from the outer districts have even gotten close to winning since Chaff. Abernathy was the exception.

I don't know if I want to be the one to come back. I mean, I want to go back to Rosetta and my dad, but I'm still not sure if it was worth the risk of losing my only brother.

"I won't let him kill himself for me." I pull away from both of them and turn around, eyes narrowing. "I'm young. No one has won the games at 15 before. It's all stacked up against me. Take Thatcher home – he's older, and my family will still..." My voice catches in my throat. "...will still benefit, okay?" I turn around just in time for the elevator door to open and storm out.

The apartment is truly amazing. I falter in my moment of fury, stutter-stepping around the lavish dining table that overflows with foods I can't even imagine the taste of. For a second, I forget everything and want to sit down and stuff myself with these rich goodies, but I bring myself back to the present and storm down the nearest hall, finding a bedroom at the end. I slam the door and collapse onto the cushy bed.

When they knock on the door, I ignore them. I wait until they stop to grab a simple gray nightgown that's still too extravagant for District Eleven and head into the bathroom for a shower. I want this makeup off and I want my natural hair back. It's all too much.

I give myself a once-over in the mirror. My makeup is still flawless, despite my deflating anger, highlighting my cheek-bones and laminating my dark eyes. The flower Thatcher so carefully threaded into my hair compliments my skin tone in a subtle way. I almost start liking my appearance before I come to my senses and strip off my dress, ripping a strap in doing so.

I throw it on the floor unceremoniously, rake my fingers through my hair to get the braids and grass out, and step into the shower.

There are so many buttons on the control panel, I'm immediately overwhelmed. After the tedious task of merely turning the water on, I have to experiment for a while to get the temperature right, standing in the cold rain of the showerhead.

Finally, after I was assaulted with an orange-scented foam, boiling hot water that had me hopping from foot to foot, and thick milky soap that smelled strongly of vanilla, I decide enough is enough and I am as clean as I'm going to get.

When I get out and look in the mirror again, the drenched wet locks and the pale face with cheekbones that are showing and the slightly hollowed cheeks belong to the person I recognize, I smile. As the girl in the mirror, I like being _me_ much more than the daughter-of-a-goddess I was earlier. That Rosalie was beautiful and confident and older than she appeared, but she wasn't me. She wasn't the starved, for all intents and purposes, little girl from District Eleven who had had no one volunteer for her.

The mat outside the shower automatically turns on these invisible fans, drying me from all directions, leaving my hair frizzy and my skin tingling.

I pull my hair into a small, simple braid after I get dressed like I used to do before going to work, and almost bump into Chaff when I open the room to the hallway. He raises an eyebrow at me, almost disbelieving that he caught me out of my room.

"Seeder said you went to bed hours ago." His eyes aren't accusing, but they certainly aren't cheerful as they look over me. "Looking for a midnight snack?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I couldn't figure out the shower. And besides, it took a while to wipe off all that gunk."

He grins, his breath reeking of alcohol. I cough and wave my hand in front of me to make the smell go away, but he throws an arm around my shoulder instead. "So, Seeder didn't get to ask, but since you're here...did you want allies?"

Thatcher and I haven't discussed it. We haven't discussed anything. Come to think of it, I haven't so much as seen him since we got off the chariots. "What did my brother say?"

Chaff frowns, like he doesn't want to answer that. Rather than argue, he leads me towards the elevator. I assume that had been his destination before I ran into him. "He doesn't want them. He wants to hit the games just you and him. But, the Careers..."

"They're not going to like it." I grab at my braid nervously. I forgot to take it off, and it's still wet against the sensitive skin of my wrist. "A Career always kills the tributes from District Eleven, it seems."

I know that I don't have to say this out loud for Chaff. He already knows. He's been coaching kids to their deaths for over a decade now, but I forget and so I blanch when I realize what I said. He doesn't seem to take it as an offense, though, because he laughs.

"I know. That's why I made a point to take them out as quick as I could." He lets go of my shoulders and wanders into the elevator. "So, do you want allies?"

I bite my lip as he holds the elevator door open before nodding my head. "Ilara Thorne, Sylvan Green, Wedge Roe, and Adit Oden...if they'll have us."

"Seven and Twelve? Interesting…" I catch the confusion going through his eyes as he nods and steps back.

Rather than head to my own room, I knock quietly on Thatcher's door. I've slept in the same room as my brother my entire life. Even if I wanted to, I don't think I would be able to fall asleep while I'm this nervous without listening to him.

"Rosey?" Thatcher's voice rings from inside.

"Yeah." My voice cracks, in spite of myself.

"Come in."

I do without hesitating and plop down on the end of his bed. "We need allies. Even if it's for a little while, we need them."

His face closes up as it does when he hears something he doesn't like. "Rosa-"

"No, shut up and listen. We need them." I snap and look down at my hands. I've never talked to my brother this way. "District Seven's trees, right? They can be up in the trees with me and we can scout. You can be up there too, but you're too big. If Chaff can make District Twelve agree, you and Adit can guard the ground. We'll survive longer with allies, Thatch. You can go home."

"_You'll_ be the one going home, Rosey." Thatcher's voice is gruff and he balls his fists in his bed sheet. "I don't want to go back knowing I let my little sister die."

"You're not going to let me die." I roll my eyes and try harder to sound up-beat. "Sometimes, it happens in the Hunger Games. People we love die. It might be you, or it might be me." I suck in a quiet breath. "But, one of us has to go back, and that's not going to happen unless we have some allies first."

"Chaff got to you earlier, didn't he? That's why you're asking."

I nod my head. "And I agree with him. We'll make the deal. Until ten tributes are left, then we'll all split up, yeah? Chances are it won't be too late, anyways. The Cornucopia always knocks out at least seven tributes." I can't believe I'm talking about people like…like _this_. I've been part of the Games for less than two days and the Capitol has already turned me into a different person.

"We'll avoid it. Fine. If they agree, I'll agree."

I smile tiredly and look up at my brother. If it wasn't for him, everything would be much simpler.

"So, you're a goddess, then?" He stands up and smiles at me teasingly. "Of the Springtime. Ha. And your name is _Rosey_."

"Shut up. At least I was clothed! You were half naked." I stand up, too, and push him to the side. I try not to scream as he picks me up and throws me on the bed, rolling over just in time to avoid being smacked with a pillow.

"Because I had to compliment you!"

"I'm the pretty one, obviously!" I roll under the bed before he can reach me. "Wow. Even their floor is comfier than ours."

"Is it?" I see Thatcher lay down on the opposite end of the floor than me. "What the hell?"

"I know!"

"When you win, you should buy this carpet."

"When _you_ win, you should just buy the bed."

"Well, it's a given that _you_ should buy the bed, but buy the carpet, too. And steal some of the cakes."

"_You_ should take some bread to Rosetta and make her enjoy it."

"Dad would love it if _you_ brought him some orange juice."

"Not as much as Lola would love it if _you_ gave her five minutes of your time."

"_You_ should stay away from Rolex. I don't care how smitten he is. You're too good for him."

"What?" I roll over to look at him, and I almost believe him before I catch the way his mouth is turned up in a half-smile. "Thatcher! That's not funny. Rolex is...ew. That'd be like dating you!"

We both laugh and argue until all I can do is tell him goodnight from underneath his bed.

We fall asleep more comfortable than we've been in years.

"Thatcher!" Chaff bursts into the room, waking me up. I almost sit up; "almost" meaning I barely lift my head and hit the frame. "Thatcher! Where's Rosalie?"

"Ngh. Why?" Thatcher's eyes flutter open as he sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes.

"She's not in her room. Seeder went to go wake her up for breakfast a little earlier to make sure she eats before she trains, but she wasn't there."

My brother falls back and turns his head towards me, both his eyes jumping up in shock. "Rosey, you're awake?"

"Shh. I can wake up early if I have to." I stick my tongue out at him and roll out from under the bed, smiling sheepishly at Chaff. "Morning?"

"There are beds." He stares at us as if we've gone insane. "There are beds, but you two choose to sleep on the floor?"

"We're not used to beds." My brother grins, getting to his feet and holding his hand out to bring me up with him. I laugh when he does, and we both smile at Chaff.

For a second, his face is impassive as he searches both our faces. I can't help but feel like he's trying to memorize all that he can before he smiles and he nods at us. "I wasn't either, but I at least tried." He scratches his head with his good hand. "You'll get used to it."

Chaff ushers us into the dining room where we both manage to sit down at eat. I only take a little from every plate, and I'm full before I even get to half the table. I swig down the orange juice before I notice Genie glowering at me and Thatcher with a look of horror and disgust on her Capitol-approved features.

"Why do you _eat_ like that?" Her nose wrinkles up disdainfully. "Like you've never seen food before."

My brother, with all his tact, points his knife at her threateningly. "Because we don't have food in District Eleven. And if we do, it's tesserae bread with cabbage soup or something much less extravagant than this."

I twist my head thoughtfully before agreeing with him. "We pick food, but we don't expect for you guys to make it look like...like this." I take another bite of egg casserole, basking in the warm, cheesy taste as my stomach begs for more.

Genie acts as if, somehow, we have offended her with our words because she doesn't say anything else as we eat. Seeder hordes us into the elevator and Chaff follows after her, holding the elevator door open with his foot. His eyes meet mine and I can see the red, bloodshot veins.

But he gets right to the point. "District Seven turned us down straight up. Said they had a better chance without a starved district holding them back. Personally, I think they're full of sh—"

"Chaff." Seeder's reproving, and she move like she's about to push him back, so he corrects himself.

"District Twelve's all in. I'm not sure if Haymitch knew what he was agreeing to – he's already drunk, but he agreed." Chaff shakes his head as if disapproving of the young Haymitch's drinking habits as he himself takes a swig out of the flask he keeps so well hidden.

Thatcher doesn't look happy about the prospect of carrying around an eleven year old girl like she's going to be useful instead of a burden, but I ignore his frown and beam at Chaff. "Thanks! We'll talk to them."

The doors close on them and the elevator takes off upwards. I try not to laugh as Thatcher nearly falls over, expecting for it to go down. Instead, the door opens up to the penthouse where we meet twin gray eyes.

"Oh!" Wedge looks nervous, however much less than she did when her name was pulled out of that glass bowl back on Reaping day. Her hand reaches out for Adit, but she tries to smile at us. I lean forward and give her a smile of my own. "Wedge?"

She nods as they step into the elevator with us. "Yeah. This is Adit."

"Thatcher." My brother is already sizing Adit up. The two of them don't break eye contact as we zoom downwards, but Wedge is very chatty once I give her my name.

"Do you know how to climb trees, Wedge?" I ask her as we pass the fifth floor.

Her lower lip sticks out, but she shakes her head. "No...am I supposed to?"

"No, but I'll teach you how to climb. It'll make things easier for Adit and Thatcher if we can keep a look out from above, right?"

She bobs her head up and down, her mouth still molded into a smile. Her dark hair is tied into a tight ponytail behind her. "Right."

"Keep her alive?" I hear the boys whisper.

I glance over my shoulder at Adit as I straighten up. The elevator stops moving, and the door opens to reveal the training room. When I turn back around, I frown. Most of the other tributes have beaten us here already, but that's understandable. It explains why we weren't interrupted again as our elevator slid down the shaft.

Most of the Careers are already messing with the weapon section, but a man makes his way over to us and explains how we should focus on survival and less on weapon's training, as most tributes died of infection, poison, starvation, or dehydration.

Thatcher and I catch each other's gaze as we separate. Wedge latches herself onto my arm as we make our way over to where we can learn traps. She seems awfully willing, coming from the most looked-down-upon district in Panem. That's not necessarily such a bad thing, just suspicious.

Haven grown up in a district where all we did was pick food, hunting is a foreign concept for me. But, I don't have to worry about identifying which food was edible from which wasn't.

That was _my_ career.

Voices drift to our station from across the room. "Yes, exactly like that!"

I don't turn around, choosing instead of focus on how to hide the awful trap I made when Wedge starts pulling at my sleeve, pointing. "Look! It's Thatcher!"

So I turn around very quickly, letting my eyebrows shoot up when I see my brother sparring with the instructor. It's not hand-to-hand combat like I thought. Instead, the instructor is wielding a sword and my brother has a scythe in one hand and a sickle in the other.

"What are those, Rosalie?" Wedge's eyes are too wide and too trusting that I have to stare at her for several seconds before I can reply.

"Those are some of the things that Thatcher used back home. The scythe is the longer one – we use it to cut grass or wheat manually since we're not allowed to use machines. The smaller one is the sickle. That one's the one we really use to harvest grain or cut down some branches that aren't producing anything. Even I can use that."

And, I smile because Thatcher is doing so well with it. If he can get a high enough score, the Gamemakers might throw it in the arena for him to use. All he'll have to do is make himself interesting enough. I turn towards the nets and pat Wedge on the head. When she looks at me, I gesture to them.

"Come on. I'll teach you how to climb."

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A/N: I absolutely adore all the changes in these chapters. If you disagree, let me know. What you like about it, you should also let me know! Anyway, while discussing stuff with my beta, we realized something. We both utterly adore Haymitch Abernathy. As one of the underrated characters, his manner appeals to us both. As for you, guys, I want to ask: What is your favorite character and why? ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer**:** I don't own anything except some junk food trash. **

_Sass Says_: A big THANK YOU to my lovely, amazing beta: StayingAlive223. Without her, I'd be lost.

* * *

Just yesterday, I watched my brother train to kill people. This morning, I wake up on the floor of his room in hysterics and only calm down when he wraps a comforting arm around me. Riding the elevator down to the Training room isn't exactly pleasant, either, but it's all the more bearable when Wedge is there with us. Adit is a silent force, and he's frightening, but Wedge is a comfort. Her easy smile only serves as a reminder that she shouldn't be here. That I shouldn't be here.

None of us should be here, actually. We're _children_, no matter how old some of us may look or act. No matter how strong or vicious or ready some of us seem, we shouldn't be here.

Thatcher and Adit have been training for combat hardcore from the moment they step foot off that elevator each day. They've gone through swords, spears, shooting with arrows, and even wrestling. Thatcher's never looked more confident than when he has a sickle in his hand, but Adit is even more frightening with a pickaxe. I can see why, seeing as he worked in the coal mine nearly 5 days a week back in District Twelve.

Wedge and I have it easier. We learn how to start a fire, how to set traps and snares, how to hide ourselves in the trees, plants, flowers, anything. For a while, when I start messing with rope, I send Wedge to the little plant thing they have going. I know most of them already. It took me only half an hour at that station to realize that I've had some sort interaction with most of them, particularly the fruits.

I use the rope ladder to teach Wedge how to climb. I don't head up there myself, because I'd rather not have everyone see how easy it is for me, but I make sure and catch her when she falls. The older ones scoff when they see Wedge trying to make her way to the very top, maneuvering her way upwards without slipping.

That last day in training, we all huddled in a room and wait restlessly for our names to be called. Some tributes pace, some tap their fingers to a silent rhythm in their head. Both the tributes from District Three are shaking. When they head in, neither of them look very confident. It's frightening to see the Careers come out with a nasty grin—including the ones from District Four, who I'm told aren't completely sadistic after all.

I find that hard to believe looking at Deniz, with a crazed look in his eyes and a sneer on his lips, but Darya Cresta makes me accept that perhaps not all of them are so bad. She's stayed close to her district partner most of the time, but she didn't look very happy at lunch when she had to sit with Deniz and the others. Unlike them, she didn't constantly look over at our makeshift group and laugh when we crowded around the table furthest from them.

I wait patiently with Adit and Wedge as Thatcher's name is called. No pacing, no tapping. A sharp intake of breath tells me that maybe he's more nervous than he's letting on, but I don't push it and manage a "good luck" before he leaves from the spot next to me.

"Do you know what you're going to do, Rosey?" Wedge asks me, her grey eyes wide and inquiring.

Predictably, Adit is silent. He's only spoken to Wedge and, occasionally, Thatcher. He hasn't said a word to me this entire time, but the other half of our alliance lets me know that he can speak; that he's a boy of few words.

"I don't know. District Eleven never really gets high scores. I'll come up with something." I tell her in an attempt to cheer her up. We've discussed what she should do.

First, she's going to show them how flexible she is. For a small girl from a starving district, she's surprisingly fast. Next, she's going to show them how she can climb up the ladder and swing as quickly as I can. She'll display her knowledge with the plants and the vegetables; telling them which ones are poisonous and which ones are not. The trick is to show them that, though she's small, she learns and adapts quickly.

Unfortunately, I know that she won't get very high of a score because they probably won't pay attention to her once they realize she's mimicking, but I hope that it's enough.

I wonder how I'm supposed to let this little girl, who I've grown so attached to, die in these Games.

Thatcher's not as happy as the Careers were when he comes back, but he seems pleased enough. He stops in front of me and pulls me into a bear hug, whispering into my hair. "Where's your fire, Rosey?"

"In District Eleven with Rosetta." I tell him blankly, but I hug him back anyway. I glance over my shoulder at Wedge and Adit when I pull away and give them a nod before I head in.

There is nothing I can do that they haven't really seen already. So, I do what I always do. I close my eyes, suck in a deep breath, and tell myself that they're paying attention to me when I know that they're not. I allow my breath to fill my lungs to full capacity, and suddenly I'm home again, standing in front of the trees. I exhale and start.

The rope ladder isn't a rope ladder at all, when I begin to climb. It's turned into a tree, one of the tallest we have back in District Eleven. I scurry up it as fast as I possibly can lest the Peacekeepers catch me for not working hard enough. Instead of the rough twine cable I cling to, I feel bark beneath my fingers, swinging from branch to branch. My movements never hesitate from years of muscle memory and dread that I'll be scolded the moment I stop. The wind blows the stray hairs from my eyes and I imagine it smelling of wheat, cooking in the hot sun in the fields.

Eventually, though, I do stop. Not because my time has run out, but because I know what my brother has done for me and try not to laugh. There are small nests—I guess that's the closest thing I would call them—hanging from the branches and a pair of curved knives hang in the trees.

In District Eleven, it's not uncommon to see Tracker Jacker nests up in the trees. We're more likely to see wasps, but people do die from being stung. We normally have these special leaves on us that we chew and put on the wounds to stop the infection from getting into our bloodstream, but sometimes it's too late. If we spot a nest before hand, we're supposed to cut it down and let it fall to the ground, where there is a team with pesticide ready to kill them.

Knives definitely aren't my strong suit, but I'm good enough to cut the improvised nets down from a distance on my second or third try of throwing. Then, I proceed to swing back and forth and end with a little flip; my feet hit the patted ground with a soft thump right on cue. They tell me my time is up. I don't look at them or thank them for their time, but I do wish Adit luck when I pass him, and I hug Wedge before I go up in the elevator.

I can tell that both Seeder and Chaff are eager to hear how the evaluation went. Thatcher tells them first about his time with the Gamemakers and how he thinks that, even though he's not a Career, he has a high likelihood of getting a good score. I don't get a chance to say my piece until right before Caesar Flickerman's voice cuts me off.

"Well, you know, just tried not to pale in comparison to my brother," is all I end up saying.

"Yes, yes, Claudius, my good friend and colleague. I completely agree! But, I'm sure everyone is very anxious to hear these scores that we just got in. I know I am! We've got some nice scores this year, folks, nice scores! Let's get started…

"From District One, Topaz Seely, nine. Garnet Pence, ten. From District Two, Hadrian Cooley, eight. Jiang Merkel, eleven. From District Three, Pixel Wilkins, five. Archie Zook, four. District Four, Darya Cresta, eight. Deniz Murphey, nine."

It wasn't hard to ignore the wince that came from Chaff. They weren't the awful scores. Not nearly as high as he had been expecting from our reports of the Careers, but high enough that we all knew to be worried. Garnet Pence and Jiang Merkel were going to be the ones to watch.

"From District Eleven, Rosalie Trosse, eight. Thatcher Trosse, eleven."

It's the highest score anyone from District Eleven has ever accomplished before. Chaff loudly guffaws and tells us he himself only managed to get an eight. Seeder is calmer, but it's obvious that she's just as content as we are. She mentions that she got a seven in her own games, and I can tell that she's telling me this so that I'll feel better.

It's suddenly become more apparent who has the better chance of winning these Games.

"From District Twelve, Wedge Roe...six," Caesar continues as if everyone else isn't already celebrating at the fact that my brother – who snores in his sleep, who eats messily and desperately because it might be his last meal for hours, who's been working to protect me – is going to bring a win home for them. "Adit Oden...ten."

Caesar goes on to say how surprised he is that both District Eleven and District Twelve have good chances of winning, even joking with Claudius Templesmith that the career districts, though he doesn't necessarily call them that, better watch out because they have some serious contenders this year.

It's going to be the best Games _ever_, they joke, like they haven't said it 53 other times before this year.

That night, I didn't share my brother's floor space. He falls asleep long before I do, retreating into the safety and comfort of my own room but end up staring at myself in the mirror. As much as I want to go home and live, I want my brother to live, also. The goal is to make it to the top three, at least. Then hope that whoever it is that takes second place has the decency of taking me out so my brother won't have to.

* * *

Seeder spends the whole next day with me, going over points for the interviewing process.

"Everyone has an angle. What's yours?" I can't think of a harder question.

We go through several before it's decided that I'm going to be the charming, flirty younger sister of the big, bad, sullen, overprotective brother that Thatcher is going to portray. We practice walking in heels as well. I would have had to practice wearing a dress, but Blye assures Seeder that I won't need to worry about a long dress, but possibly a short one. So we practiced how to cross my ankles so I don't appear inappropriate. I'm to smile more and flirt, yes, but I need to have some confidence in myself. I should _not_ speak of my family so much, except, of course, Thatcher. Any questions about Rosalie and my parents should be redirected.

Seeder asks me everything else, and I try to answer her as honestly as I can. I'm not exactly charming, we figure out; I seem more suspicious than anything. According to Seeder, that's a good thing. It means that I won't trust anyone excessively.

"If we're going to get you out alive, that's something you'll need."

She sends me to my room after we finish, but I disappear into the elevator to see if Wedge needs help. She claims that Haymitch doesn't care one way or another about what his tributes do or who they hang around. He seems like he is going to try to get one of them out alive, though, despite his drunkenness. It probably has something to do with the scores the two of them got, certainly on the higher side. In fact, it seems as though Adit has set a new record for the top score of District Twelve.

Inwardly, if it isn't going to be me or Thatcher, I want it to be Adit or Wedge.

Thatcher joins me about an hour later when I go back down to my floor. It isn't going to be hard for him to be overprotective and sullen. All he has to do is remind himself that he's talking to a member of the Capitol who doesn't know what it's like to be starving, who is sending him to his inevitable death with his little sister where it is guaranteed that one of them wasn't going to survive.

We grab snacks and talk in my room this time, trying to joke but falling into moments of silence far more than either of us is comfortable with. Eventually, I had to speak to him.

"I'm going to write Rosetta. If I don't make it, I want her to have something to remember me by."

Of course, my darling brother was quick to deny that I wasn't going to make it. I don't have the heart to tell him that it means he would be dying in order to give me my life, even though he probably already knows that.

Eventually, when I find a pen and paper and sit down to write, Thatcher joins me and we begin to put into words what no parent or sibling should ever be obliged to read.

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A/N: I hope you all have enjoyed the chapter. :D Let me know what you think. I very much value your opinion~


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer**:** I don't own anything...except the people of this form of Hunger Games.**

_Sass Says_: A big THANK YOU to the best beta ever: StayingAlive223. Seriously. Without her, you might not have this chapter. 3

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Though we stay together to write our letters, neither Thatcher nor me feel like sharing much of what we write. I look down at my letters and cringe at the sight of my handwriting. It looks more like scrawl, but I'm comforted by the fact that no matter how awful my writing may appear, it's inevitable that Thatcher's will be far more inferior. He left school younger than I did, but we both should have abandoned it years before that. Maybe then we wouldn't have needed so many tesserae. If only we worked longer hours, acquiring mere scraps of money that are already hard to come by in District Eleven, then perhaps the required tesserae wouldn't have cost us so severely.

Had my name not been entered into the reaping bowl a grand total of twenty-seven times, the possibility of another girl standing here in my shoes—writing death-notes to her own family and wondering how she's going to kill these people—is highly likely.

While I wouldn't want anyone else in my position, I'm conflicted between reason and guilt—both of which fighting a losing battle in my head and making my temples throb. I hate watching the Games as much as the next person, but I would give anything to be home on my mat, my hands sore and blistered from climbing and picking fruit and my bones stiff under my skin from a hard day's work.

Thatcher, though, is a different story. He can handle himself in about any situation thrown in his direction. That's why I don't wish for him to be home, but _me_. Thatcher can win these Games. I don't even stand a chance.

"_Hey Etta,_

_Promise me you won't be too mad at him? You may have seen the footage, but I was there. The Games change people. Usually, it's not for the better. We're all too young. However much our darling brother would like to lie about it, he's still as much as a child as I am. You should have seen him when we first got here. Almost everyone's like a Peacekeeper to him, so you can guess his attitude. And the food, Etta! There's so much food. Everything we pick and harvest and pack away, you should see what the Capitol does to it. We've only been here a couple of days, and I can already tell I've gained some weight!_"

A scowl forms on my brow line when I read over the last sentence. I could erase it, but I know that Rosetta will be reading this when they bring my body back to be buried like the other tributes. I want her to think my last days were some of the best ever, and that our brother contributed to that.

"_I hope you saw the chariots. Who am I kidding, right? Of course you saw them. Did we look happy like I hope we did? Blye, she's my stylist, said that people were approaching her left and right asking to sponsor us. I don't doubt it. And, Thatcher's score was really high, right? He didn't tell me exactly how he got it, but I know it's enough if you're reading my letter and not his._

_I want you to forgive our dear brother for everything he's done. It wasn't really his choice, and don't bring up the horrible memories. Forgive him. The only thing I ask is that, if you choose to have children, could you name one after me? Give all my love to mom and dad. I love you. I miss you. I'll see you later, but hopefully not too soon._

_Rosey."_

It's hard to write in the future-tense, and takes quite a bit of thought as I attempt to put my emotions into words.

Tomorrow night are the interviews with Caesar Flickerman, which will be broadcast to all of Panem, including mom, day, and Rosetta back in Eleven. Today, I can look up at the ceilings of the hologramic tiles of my room. I can look up at the stars and imagine that I am in District Eleven – imagine that I am home. Tomorrow night, I can look at the same thing. But, the night after that...I could be in a frozen wasteland. I could be in the abandoned landscape of a city empty of once-upon-a-time's. I could be on a paradise with a charade of plenty of food that could ultimately be poison.

I let my imagination wonder, but I know I won't be thrown into any of these extreme visions. Those settings have already been used. They don't do repeats in the Hunger Games. Every year has to be different so that twenty-three kids can die in a different way than the twenty-three tributes did in last year's Games.

My dreams tonight aren't exactly dreams, but they're not nightmares either. Somehow, they manage to be so much worse. I don't worry about my dying. In my dreams, Sylvan Green does nothing as Topaz Seely stabs Wedge violently in the eyes and comes after me next. The me in the dream turns on her heel and runs away – runs until she comes upon a sight neither of us can fathom.

His lips are blue and his eyes dead, the noose around his neck squeezing the life out of his entire being. My breath has no time to catch before I'm shimmering up the tree to cut the godforsaken rope that has taken my brother's life. It's too late though, and Topaz has reached me. I scream his name until my throat turns raw, but I know there's nothing left to do. Nothing left to live for…

I wake up with a thick layer of sweat covering my body and sunlight filling the room. My hands shake so severely I have to ball them in the damp sheets by my legs. I want to go and find my brother – assure myself that he's alive, but I don't. Instead, I grab a plain blue dress and head to the shower in an attempt to calm myself down.

It's easier to figure out this time, and I remember liking the smell of vanilla. I settle for that again. I braid my dripping hair in the shower so it won't be too frizzy when the air dries me up. When it does, I try not to look at myself in the mirror. I don't want to see my puffy eyes or the weariness I wear so often on my face. Besides, I know that I have to get ready soon. I have to make the Capitol love me, especially if I want sponsors.

After I dress, I step out of my room to join the others for breakfast, and the feeling in the pit of my stomach gets worse. My brother isn't dressed yet, but he's eating like he has nothing to worry about. I see him slather butter on his toast and take a big bite, eating and laughing at Chaff's actions. Seeder is more disapproving of it, eating neatly as if anticipating Genie's reproving comment. Genie hasn't spoken to Thatcher or me since we offended her.

"Morning, Rosalie." Seeder greets me.

My lips forage a thin smile in her direction before I sit down next to my brother, piling food on my plate that I haven't yet tasted. I'm determined not to be some sort of problem child. I want to do my best so that the Games aren't harder on us than we need them to be. We eat, and eventually chat with Seeder. She's throwing questions at us that Caesar's asked before. She claimed she was trying to get us familiar with the questions so it sounds natural when we respond. Thatcher's much more inclined to answer on his own, rather than with the style that was forced upon him.

"Rosalie, what's it like going into the Games with your brother?"

For a moment, I'm startled. I wasn't expecting Chaff to throw the question at me—mainly because he hasn't said much this whole time—but he has, and I need an answer. Beside me, Thatcher tenses. I set my utensils down because, however incredible the scrambled eggs taste, everything feels heavier. I force my gaze up to meet Chaff's, and I smile flirty, the way Seeder and I practiced.

"A little bitter, you know?" I sigh because this subject is painful. "Because, I don't know if I can kill him, and I don't know if he can kill me. But, I _do_ know it's definitely going to be one of the two of us! He's strong; they're not going to catch him off guard. And, well, look at me. I'm not going to be one to count out either." Though the wink is a little unnatural, I can tell by the look on Blye's face that I did a very good job.

They nod their heads proudly at my well-polished answer. When his stylist, Isla, questions him according to my response, my brother's face twists uncomfortably.

"I hate it." He says flatly. "She's my little sister. I taught her how to walk, how to climb a tree. I snuck her some of my food when she was hungry, and I beat up the guys who picked on her." He grins darkly and addresses Isla. "It's going to be the same in the arena. They mess with her, and I'll end them."

He says it so calmly. Everyone is looking at him favorably, and Genie's eyes are welling up with tears over how beautiful his speech sounded to her. I'm too busy staring at him with hooded eyes because I don't know how to take it. My brother is swearing up and down that he will kill anyone who messes with me. I know we're supposed to lie, but I'm struck with the realization that my brother is not joking.

The thought is frightening, but I swallow the lump in my throat. "When are we getting ready?"

"Goodness, I almost forgot," Blye laughs, although I can't imagine how she could. She gets to her feet and ushers me down the hall. "I told them to show up a little early."

I let her push me into the elevator. I turn around just in time to see Thatcher wave and disappear down the hall to change into decent clothes. I expect us to head down, but of course that doesn't happen. Instead, the next time the elevator door opens, Adit stands before us.

He slides into the confined box and stands facing me. Blye falls silent and stays to the side, but I move to stand beside him and glance out to the elevator doors.

"Wedge?" I ask him, though I know it's a bit futile. He never speaks to me, but I think, maybe, he might say something if it's just us.

He doesn't respond. I give up, and fall silent, but I'm surprised when I hear him say something under his breath.

"Downstairs." The word rides on the very exhale of his breath.

I want to gawk at him because _holy crap Adit can speak and it's not in my imagination_. I only manage to refrain because it would seem odd to Blye to have me openly staring at the boy. Instead, I smile and tilt my head down a fraction so that he knows I've heard him.

The door opens before we can say anything else (not that he would anyway), and I give him a small wave as I'm dragged down the hall to the rest of my prep team. I can see the defeated man with the hunched shoulders that's supposed to be _his_ stylist.

Inside the room, my prep team is chatting excitedly amongst themselves. When they spot us they jump to their feet instantaneously. Blye hands me over to them with specific instructions to keep my eyes peeled. I do, and I find that being prepped isn't too bad.

They work on me for what feels like forever, but I can't fault them for trying to make me look appealing. The interview is a lot different from the chariot rides. There, I had to make an impression with my appearance and my actions. Somehow, the interview is worse because I have to make the impression with my _words_. I have to make them remember me. So I didn't argue – much – when they scrubbed my skin until it was red and boiling. I didn't argue when they cured and painted my nails white—only the tips, which seemed a little odd to me. They painted the rest, but it was a nude shade and not that noticeable. Since it's only been a couple of days since every last bit of stray hair on my body had been plucked from its follicle, I didn't need another round of waxing.

I hated the waxing.

It's Zipporah who does my hair in a simple braided style. She pulls my hair to the side and divided it into two parts. For the third portion of the braid she used a white ribbon. My hair has never been very long, so they cut the left over ribbon. The braid fell over my left shoulder, loose but strangely secure.

My makeup is done lightly at first, with white eye-shadow and a small highlight of my cheekbones. Libo, though, concluded it wasn't enough ("It needs to look bold!"). He rimmed the top and bottom lashes with black liner, exaggerating the end at the corners so they curled into what he called a cat-eye, and used darker shades of the makeup to blend it into the prepared white. He even added some to the bottom eye to "give it depth". Then, he used this weird black…_gunk_ that we would never use back home to make my lashes stand out.

Juniper, arguably my favorite of the trio, takes her time to decorate the top of my eyes will small, sparkling studs, starting from the edge of where Libo painted to the inside corner of my eye. The finishing touch is a bright red lip.

"So it'll pop!" Juniper giggles.

When Blye pulls out my dress, I'm relieved that she didn't lie about the length. I'm certain that I would have tripped over it if it would have been long. It goes down to my knees, so it's also not as short as I expected to be, thankfully. It has a scoop neckline and sleeves of lace that end at my elbow. It is a simple white dress, really, but the layer of lace added to it is what makes it really beautiful, I think. Blye ties a bow on my back with a black, silky belt.

"Ready to go out there and kill them?" Blye asks with a sly smile, stepping back after having made me walk around in my shoes. They're about as tall as the ones I practiced with, so I mentally thank Seeder for forcing me into it.

"I guess so." I shrug, not appreciating the pun. "It feels…odd, going out there and knowing that I'm to play up Thatch."

She's startled by the nickname, seeing as I haven't called him that once in her presence. Or even, come to think of it, with Chaff and Seeder. To be honest, I've surprised myself because I haven't called him that since we were children.

I meet my brother in the elevator. I think that we were all supposed to head in together, but no one really wants to climb in with us. Finally, Chaff and Seeder joins us and we head down. They remind us to be friendly and not hostile, though that comment is directed at only one of us. Thatcher shrugs his shoulders.

"You look pretty, Rosey." He laughs and flicks my braid. I shove his arm, thinking of his designated dark and intimidating look, and shudder, realizing that my brother plays the part almost too well.

When we step through the doors, forty-eight eyes are instantly trained on him. Thankfully, Wedge averts her stare and smiles at me. We can't sit next to each other, unfortunately. Instead, I'm squished in my chair sitting between the male tribute from District Ten and Thatcher. We walk single file out onto the stage and sit down after the anthem of Panem is played. Most of us stand there silently, but some Careers sing along with the words as if they're proud to be a part of the Games.

I smile brightly at the cameras, even when I know they're not actually pointed at me. I don't wave or wink or anything like that because I'm afraid if I waste all of that now and won't have the gall to do it when I'm sitting opposite Caesar.

It's weird seeing Caesar Flickerman in reality because, for over twenty years, he's been merely an image on a screen. He always starts the same way; bouncing onto the stage with too much excitement. He's wearing his midnight blue suit that looks like it holds the galaxy from afar, although it's easier to tell that they're electrical bulbs from where we're standing—courtesy of District 3. I try not to nudge Thatcher when I catch glimpse of his actual appearance.

This year, he's going for some sort of off-green that almost looks like the green Thatcher and I wore for the ceremony. His eyelids and his mouth are caked in the same shade, and he's creepy, but he's not entirely off-putting. I think it'll be easier to speak with him than it has been with our mentors. At least I know he's genuinely indifferent about the outcome of the Games. He gives each and every one of us a chance to make an impression. He jokes and the audience laughs, even if they're horrible, and does most of the talking for those who can't.

And by "those" I mean Districts Three and Five because they are _awful._

When the boy from District Ten goes up, I find it a little difficult to breathe. I'm still smiling, and I'm trying not to look too bored or too excited, but it's hard to control my emotions inside with the façade outside. I don't calm down until Thatcher grabs my hand and squeezes it. Too suddenly, the boy is back.

"You know her as the female tribute form District Eleven, but _I _know her as the Growing Goddess, Rosalie Trosse!"

I stand a little too quickly, blinking black splotches out of my vision as I beam and flounce my way over to Caesar. Though his hand is outstretched, I can't help but feel inclined to hug him. It's true that he has the habit of giving Tributes nicknames, but he rarely does so for the outer Districts unless he believes they're going to win, which is pretty close to never. He hugs me back, though, with no hesitation, and we sit down. I cross my ankles like Seeder taught me to, remembering Genie's reprimanding order to sit tall as well.

"Rosal-" He starts, but I interrupt him with a giggle.

"Rosey, please, Caesar. Rosalie makes me feel as if I'm in some sort of trouble." I wave him off.

"Rosey it is!" He laughs. "Tell me, my dear, what've you liked best about the Capitol?"

I've never had much District pride, but saying anything bad about it makes me feel guilty towards the place I've called home all my life. I try not to let it show. "You mean besides the fact that it's not District Eleven?" I flash a grin. "Definitely the beds!"

It's the same question Chaff asked me, and I can see people are confused, so I explain.

"In District Eleven, too few people actually _have_ beds. Thatcher and I used to share one when we were little, but we ended up having to sell it the year my siblings and I were all eligible for the Reaping. I _like_ getting my own, and, wow, is it big just for little old me."

I find some horrible-looking guy in the crowd, but he's sitting in one of the private boxes. I know he has to be rich, so I direct a wink in his direction. The audience laughs.

"Your brother got an eleven, too. Can you tell us anything about that?" he raises an eyebrow at me and leans forward, as if I'll give in and tell him all of the dirty little secrets.

"Caesar! You know that I can absolutely not tell you anything!" I pretend to be scandalized, gasping overzealously and raising a hand to my heart. I then make a show about rolling my eyes. "I think Thatch just wanted to protect me. He's been training really hard since he got here, but I'm afraid my lips are sealed beyond that."

"The moment your name was called, there was screaming wasn't there?" His voice is quieter, and everything seems more subdued, almost as if time has slowed down for this particular moment to drag on.

I don't want to think of my mother, but my mind flashes back to her: her smile, her morning greetings, the weary look in her eyes I definitely inherited. I wonder what she would be thinking now. Then, I think of Rosetta and my father, and I have to drive the conversation away from them.

"Yes." I say, and it's very clipped. "I thought – I'd hoped – that someone was going to volunteer for me. But no one ever volunteers in District Eleven. Thatcher once told he had wanted to, though. Guess he didn't have to."

"I think we were all a little sympathetic for you and your family when his name was called. What was going on in your mind?" Caesar asks.

"The first thing that ran through it was, 'Oh no. Who's going to shuck the hay?'" I pause to acknowledge some of the laughs and cheers then continue, "Then, I started thinking about this awful boy. Rye, was his name. He used to pick on me when I was little. One time, he shoved me to the ground and Thatcher – being the hero that he is – punched him in the face so hard Rye couldn't see for a week. At least, and I swear this is exactly what happened in my mind Caesar, I'll have someone to watch my back in the Games."

"So you shall," says Caesar, and the buzzer goes off. We stand up, and he pulls me into another hug. He smells too much like makeup and hairspray. "Give it up for Rosalie Trosse, tribute of District Eleven!"

I pass my brother on my way back up to the stage. He gets a nickname, too, but I'm too distracted to pay attention. I acknowledge him with a nod of my head, but it seems as if he had a different plan all together. He pulls me into a quick hug, places a quick kiss on the top of my head in a weird moment of brotherly affection, and then he walks to Caesar like nothing happened. The audience oo's and aww's at our loving relationship.

I look at the crowd and smile when someone makes eye contact, but I've already effectively tuned out most of the interview. I don't want to hear how dark and powerful my brother appears. Instead, I look up only when I catch the last part, where he mentions me.

"Ah, everyone thinks I'm going to go and protect Rosey." He scoffs, and waves his hand as if to dismiss the very idea. "No need, though. Rosey's strong on her own. And animals? They _love_ her Caesar. You should see her, up in the trees, even on her days off. She'll whistle and the birds come right to her, twittering like she's talking to them or something. And when she sings," he shakes his head. "that girl has some voice on her. I can hear her all the way from the fields."

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A/N: There you have it. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. It's kind of long, but I guess that can make up for the fact that it's so late? Ha.


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